ianwright
Well-Known Member
Grimsby towards Bridlington.
We left the Humber at the right time of the tide, got swept north and east round the shallows and settled down for a twelveish hour sail to Brid’. Sunny and a nice reach.
Two hours later, Rain, fog and wind on the nose. Bugger!
Two of us kept a mile or so offshore, the other beat up the beach tacking when the sounder read two meters.
A quarter mile or so from Bridlington harbour entrance, still rain, fog and wind on the nose. One of us, (I will not say who) spoke on 06 vhf. “Er,,,,, I’m aground on the beach, Chaps.” “Are you OK?” "Well, At least I know where I’m spending the night!” A thoughtful silence reigned for a few moments then, “Look, I’m not happy leaving you there, I think the Coastguard ought to be told. How do you feel about that?” “Er, OK, might be best. The surf is breaking into the cockpit and she’s hitting pretty hard.”
So the Coastguard were appraised of the situation.
Five mins later two CG Landrovers were on the beach, blue lights flashing and illuminating the casualty. Two more mins and the inshore lifeboat was on scene and a 17 year old crewman waded through the surf to reassure the skipper.
The ILB made a quick attempt to haul her off but the tide was away too far. Time for the big boat. She had her off and safe along side the harbour wall in short order.
Fifteen Coastguard, three ILB crew and eight big boat crew made sure we were all fine and vanished like fairies. Well, it was midnight.
Next day the ‘casualty’ visited the lifeboat station to apologise, offer grateful thanks and slip a few pounds into the Lifeboat collecting box.
“Not to worry”, said the Coxs’n “Its all good practice and it’s our first ‘shout’ this year!”
After another rest day and a terrific fish and chip meal we left for (at last!”) Whitby.
Whitby and points North.
Once at Bridlington, even if the RNLI helped you get there, a Yotties life gets a little easier. rocks are no softer, in fact there are more of them and they infest the desired direct route between ports, but at least the ports are closer together also. Within the abilities of Yottin’ pensioners, nearly.
So to Whitby. Whitby, you may know, is where Bram Stoker wrote or at least got the inspiration for “Dracula”. Local legend has it that Dracula came ashore at Whitby in the form of a huge black hound, the only survivor of a shipwreck. His descendants still live there and are employed as harbour staff. The harbour is a narrow gash in the cliffs with a nice set of off lying rocks and reefs, and a fast cross tide to add interest. The only water at low tide is through the lifting town bridge which lifts on the hour and half hour during daylight and not at all after 8pm. We nicked a berth each at the Whitby Yacht Club pontoon and settled down for the night prepared to fight off harbourmaster’s assistants (You can’t stay there, the yacht club don’t like it!”. as only wet old sailors can. (Garlic, sharp steaks, silver crosses)
Over the next few days we port hopped via Blyth, Amble and the Farne Islands. to our first Scottish port at Eyemouth. A nice place is Eyemouth, a working fishing port (Prawns, Crabs, Lobsters and Scallops, yummy!) but one which welcomes yachtsmen and provides well for them.. Then across the Firth of Forth to Anstruther. (pronounced “Annstruh”)
Now our plan A was to get north and then west to Inverness and transit the Caledonian canal. With constant north west winds where there should have been southerlies we were making very slow progress so we, reluctantly, moved on to plan B. In point of fact we didn’t have a plan B but we made one up as follows,,,,,,,,,,,
Sail up the Forth to Port Edgar, crane out our masts and on to the Forth-Clyde canal which had re-opened four years ago at huge cost. They forgot to raise the bridges.
Anyway it was a short cut to the west coast and we had little choice. Trouble was the staff at Port Edgar don’t work at weekends and we arrived on a Friday. so got stuck with three days marina fees, about £50 plus another £50 to get the masts out. Monday we motored the ten miles to the canal entrance and paid the other arm and leg for a transit fee. It took an hour each to fill out the required forms so we didn’t get moving in the canal ‘til the next day.
Now, to be fair, it was a nice enough canal as canals go, a little shallow to be sure, but the staff were keen. They drove along the tow path to operate the (many) locks and bridges, take lines and so on. I very nearly began to enjoy it,,,,,,,,,,,,,
We stopped for the night at the Falkirk Wheel and headed west the next day. Towards Kirkantilloch, Maryhill and the rear end of Glasgow. A district infested with boat hating tribes, three of them, The Rangers tribe, the Celtic Tribe and, God help us, a Manchester United tribe. Each distinguished by the wearing of the tribes football shirts, they are each others sworn enemies, but the people they hate above all others are English Yachtsmen. So they throw stuff. Abuse, rocks, dog poo(!), ball bearings from catapults and, twice, .22 slugs,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
We survived. It was a real pleasure to get out to salt water again. So much so that at my first taste of Clyde sailing I ran aground, twice in ten minutes.
IanW
<hr width=100% size=1>Vertue 203, Patience
We left the Humber at the right time of the tide, got swept north and east round the shallows and settled down for a twelveish hour sail to Brid’. Sunny and a nice reach.
Two hours later, Rain, fog and wind on the nose. Bugger!
Two of us kept a mile or so offshore, the other beat up the beach tacking when the sounder read two meters.
A quarter mile or so from Bridlington harbour entrance, still rain, fog and wind on the nose. One of us, (I will not say who) spoke on 06 vhf. “Er,,,,, I’m aground on the beach, Chaps.” “Are you OK?” "Well, At least I know where I’m spending the night!” A thoughtful silence reigned for a few moments then, “Look, I’m not happy leaving you there, I think the Coastguard ought to be told. How do you feel about that?” “Er, OK, might be best. The surf is breaking into the cockpit and she’s hitting pretty hard.”
So the Coastguard were appraised of the situation.
Five mins later two CG Landrovers were on the beach, blue lights flashing and illuminating the casualty. Two more mins and the inshore lifeboat was on scene and a 17 year old crewman waded through the surf to reassure the skipper.
The ILB made a quick attempt to haul her off but the tide was away too far. Time for the big boat. She had her off and safe along side the harbour wall in short order.
Fifteen Coastguard, three ILB crew and eight big boat crew made sure we were all fine and vanished like fairies. Well, it was midnight.
Next day the ‘casualty’ visited the lifeboat station to apologise, offer grateful thanks and slip a few pounds into the Lifeboat collecting box.
“Not to worry”, said the Coxs’n “Its all good practice and it’s our first ‘shout’ this year!”
After another rest day and a terrific fish and chip meal we left for (at last!”) Whitby.
Whitby and points North.
Once at Bridlington, even if the RNLI helped you get there, a Yotties life gets a little easier. rocks are no softer, in fact there are more of them and they infest the desired direct route between ports, but at least the ports are closer together also. Within the abilities of Yottin’ pensioners, nearly.
So to Whitby. Whitby, you may know, is where Bram Stoker wrote or at least got the inspiration for “Dracula”. Local legend has it that Dracula came ashore at Whitby in the form of a huge black hound, the only survivor of a shipwreck. His descendants still live there and are employed as harbour staff. The harbour is a narrow gash in the cliffs with a nice set of off lying rocks and reefs, and a fast cross tide to add interest. The only water at low tide is through the lifting town bridge which lifts on the hour and half hour during daylight and not at all after 8pm. We nicked a berth each at the Whitby Yacht Club pontoon and settled down for the night prepared to fight off harbourmaster’s assistants (You can’t stay there, the yacht club don’t like it!”. as only wet old sailors can. (Garlic, sharp steaks, silver crosses)
Over the next few days we port hopped via Blyth, Amble and the Farne Islands. to our first Scottish port at Eyemouth. A nice place is Eyemouth, a working fishing port (Prawns, Crabs, Lobsters and Scallops, yummy!) but one which welcomes yachtsmen and provides well for them.. Then across the Firth of Forth to Anstruther. (pronounced “Annstruh”)
Now our plan A was to get north and then west to Inverness and transit the Caledonian canal. With constant north west winds where there should have been southerlies we were making very slow progress so we, reluctantly, moved on to plan B. In point of fact we didn’t have a plan B but we made one up as follows,,,,,,,,,,,
Sail up the Forth to Port Edgar, crane out our masts and on to the Forth-Clyde canal which had re-opened four years ago at huge cost. They forgot to raise the bridges.
Anyway it was a short cut to the west coast and we had little choice. Trouble was the staff at Port Edgar don’t work at weekends and we arrived on a Friday. so got stuck with three days marina fees, about £50 plus another £50 to get the masts out. Monday we motored the ten miles to the canal entrance and paid the other arm and leg for a transit fee. It took an hour each to fill out the required forms so we didn’t get moving in the canal ‘til the next day.
Now, to be fair, it was a nice enough canal as canals go, a little shallow to be sure, but the staff were keen. They drove along the tow path to operate the (many) locks and bridges, take lines and so on. I very nearly began to enjoy it,,,,,,,,,,,,,
We stopped for the night at the Falkirk Wheel and headed west the next day. Towards Kirkantilloch, Maryhill and the rear end of Glasgow. A district infested with boat hating tribes, three of them, The Rangers tribe, the Celtic Tribe and, God help us, a Manchester United tribe. Each distinguished by the wearing of the tribes football shirts, they are each others sworn enemies, but the people they hate above all others are English Yachtsmen. So they throw stuff. Abuse, rocks, dog poo(!), ball bearings from catapults and, twice, .22 slugs,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
We survived. It was a real pleasure to get out to salt water again. So much so that at my first taste of Clyde sailing I ran aground, twice in ten minutes.
IanW
<hr width=100% size=1>Vertue 203, Patience
